


Chaos

by Remember_Ember



Series: The Chaos Chronicles [1]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier, Youtube RPF
Genre: Chaos, Death, Original Character Death(s), Original Characters - Freeform, Original Surnames, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, WKM, Who Killed Markiplier - Freeform, minor original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remember_Ember/pseuds/Remember_Ember
Summary: In the shadows, I hide, from the depths I whisper. My breath can be heard as the wind howls, and my voice calls from the darkest places. I am everywhere. My mere presence will drive anyone mad, my corruption takes hold quickly. You won't notice me there till I have already taken over.I am darkness.I am insanity.I am chaos.And with me... you have no control.





	1. So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Killed Markiplier](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/368763) by Markiplier. 



Mark paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair as silent sobs left his throat. Everything hurt. His throat was ripped up from screaming and sobbing. His head hurt from stress and banging it on the wall when C... when  _she_  left. With  _him_. His feet and knees were starting to hurt from the constant walking around he'd been doing for the past few hours. His chest... his heart hurt because of the love of his life, the woman he pledged said life too, just...

He swallowed and shook his head. He wasn't ready to admit that to himself yet. He grabbed his hair and screamed again, throwing himself into the nearby wall in some sort of insane hope it would knock the pain out of him. He sobbed, curling up into a small ball against the wall, clutching  _her ring_  to his chest.

He was... he was exhausted. The day... the week... the month-  _months_... years even... Had been so hard. He'd truly loved her. He thought she was the one. He thought they would be together...  _till death do us part_... He made a small whining noise as his tears started to dry, having cried them out for now. He could see it now, as they said, hindsight is always 20/20. She never loved him the way he loved her. He sat there for what felt like forever, heaving short breaths as he held the ring in his hand, close as he could.

He was utterly spent. And soon, he was asleep, curled in a ball against his wall, tear stains on his cheeks, rumpled clothes covering him, a ring clutched in his hands so hard, his knuckles and fingers were white, even as he slept. His butler, an old man by the name of Zadomin Warf, whose family had been serving, and become close friends to the Fischbach's, for years, found him three hours later. A soft, pitying smile crossed the old man's mouth, his wrinkled, weathered face crinkling even more as he bent down to the man he considered a second son.

Zadomin tried to wake the distraught man, but inevitably gave up, and used all his strength to lift the man, calling for his friend, the chef, to come and help. The two managed to carry their master up to his bedroom and get him situated on his large bed. Zadomin was surprised by how heavy a sleeper Mark was, remembering him to be twitchy and jumpy in his sleep, having constant night terrors and being woken at the slightest disturbance.

He was rightly worried for his boss. He sighed as he brushed the tear and sweat-slicked hair back from the young man's face. He was gentle about it, his old, callused hands running through his hair. Zadomin smiled, remembering how he used to do this to both boys, Mark and his own son when they were small. He sighed again before turning away and leaving the room, taking one last look at the boy sleeping on the bed, before closing the door behind him.

Mark shifted in his sleep, a soft whine leaving him as he subconsciously reached out to her side of the bed, grasping nothing. He stayed sleeping as he pulled her pillow close, burying his face into it before stilling, and drifting off to a peaceful sleep, dreaming he was still happy with her.

...

Mark awoke with a groan, his back sore and his face stiff. He rubbed his face a little and turned with a smile toward C- toward her. His sleepy smile melted away when he was met with an empty bed and a truckload of painful memories. He swallowed thickly, rubbing his eyes again in hopes of keeping the returning tears at bay. He sighed softly, grabbing her pillow and curling himself around it, inhaling her lingering scent deeply.

He stayed like that for hours, holding her pillow and pretending it was her. That was how Zadomin found him, pitifully curled around a pillow, silent tears streaming down his face. The butler had brought a plate of food, a small portion of eggs and bacon for breakfast, as Mark had never come down for the meal. He knocked lightly on the doorway, more as a way of telling Mark he was coming in then asking permission before he entered the room. He tutted quietly setting the plate down on the table and sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out and brushed the broken man's hair from his face.

"You know you can talk to me," he said softly, his old voice quieter than he'd meant it to be, "I know how you feel. You remember how my wife left us all those years ago, don't you? You don't have to be afraid of telling me how you feel..."

Mark didn't move, though a small whimper could be heard, though it was muffled by the pillow. Zadomin smiled sadly, petting the younger man's hair as he had done for many years. He'd always seen Mark as a son, having to care for the boy since he was very small. The boy's own parents were always busy, always working on something new. When they passed away in a boating accident when Mark was only 10 years old, Mark barely suffered, having never really known them. Of course, that didn't mean the boy wasn't shaken by the news.

Years after that, Zadomin was a sort of 'master' over the house and those who worked there, being both the oldest and the one put in charge till Mark was old enough. His family became a sort of honorary Fischbach family, and he knew his actual son truly felt he belonged here, with his brother-like best friend. When Mark came of age, the Warf's stayed, as well as other close workers, like the chef and the groundskeeper, George.

And now... now his son had left, and taken Mark's wife with him. This left Zadomin with his grieving honorary son, and no way to contact his own son. He sighed and gently maneuvered Mark's body so his head was on Zadomins lap, the pillow Mark refused to let go of crushed between Mark's face and his stomach.

"Mark... if you won't talk for now... will you at least eat? I brought you some breakfast," he asked softly. Mark just shook his head, his head burying farther into the pillow. He looked like a small child, wrapped in a bathrobe and snuggling a pillow. Zadomin sighed, "And why not?"

"'m not hungry, Zadomin..." Mark said, lifting his head from the pillow so he knew his voice would be heard. It was then, promptly, back in the pillow. Zadomin sighed and readjusted Mark so the man was back where he'd started, and he stood. He was glad he'd brought a cover for the plate, hopefully, the food would stay warm.

"Alright. I'll leave it for you here, for when you do get hungry," he said before turning away and leaving the room. He made his way downstairs, a sad look on his face. He saw the chef, waiting for him by the kitchen. He shook his head sadly, knowing what the chef had wanted.

"He refused to eat it, said he wasn't hungry. I left it there in case he starts to feel hungry later."

"Poor bastard..." Chef mumbled, "Can't imagine my sweet Selome leaving me for another man, one of my best friends no less! No offense, Mister Warf, but your son is a little  _bitch_." Zadomin rolled his eyes at the crude language, but nodded his head, fiddling with his white gloves.

"I know, Chef, no offense taken. I really didn't think Will would... I didn't think he'd be the type, even though I  _knew_  he liked Celine..." Zadomin sighed, and the chef placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I may be the sweetest looking angel, Zad, but if you need me to go knock some sense into your boy..." Chef held up his ladle, mimicking whacking someone on the head with it. Zadomin chuckled, shaking his head.

"Thank you, chef, but I don't think that will help..." he sighed and pulled away from his friend with a sad smile, "Now, we both have some work to do. Why don't we distract ourselves, and perhaps we can all visit with George later," the chef nodded and turned back to his kitchen, his hand absentmindedly patting his 'little buddy' as he passed by. Zadomin's shoulders slouched a bit as he turned away, heading off to clean some of the mess left behind by yesterdays... events.

...

Mark stared at the plate of food with a blank expression. He wasn't truly seeing anything at the moment, lost in a daydream where she was still wrapped in his arms and he could still freely hold her and kiss her and let her name fall from his lips. A place where she didn't... where she hadn't...  _left me for him. She left me... for him. He..._

Mark flipped over restlessly, his eyes blinking and focusing on the world around him again. He felt strange, empty. The world felt gray. His eyes strayed to the plate of food. He'd been there for days, not moving from his bed. He knew he probably smelled by this point. He stared at the plate of food. His stomach recoiled at the thought of eating.

He sighed, knowing Zadomin would be upset that he hadn't eaten still. In the days he'd been in here, Zadomin was bringing him a constant supply of food from the chef, twice a day. And in all the time he'd been in his room, he'd barely eaten. He had a bite of soup the day before, but that was only because the butler waited in the room for a while, and Mark was starting to feel guilty.

He kept his gaze away from the food, closing his eyes. He hated feeling like this. He knew he was missing something...  _someone_. He just didn't know how to get it back. He didn't know how to fill up again.  _She left... he... he took her from me..._  he thought brokenly to himself, curling up into a small ball. Tears came to his eyes again. He was mildly surprised he still had tears to shed but didn't dwell on it, and soon he fell asleep once more.

...

It had been days, weeks maybe. And Mark was parched, having barely drunk anything. Surprisingly, he wasn't hungry, but his throat was starting to hurt from lack of water, and his eyes just stung harshly whenever he opened them. So, he decided to leave his room in search of water. It was dark outside, according to his quick glance out the window, so he hoped that meant everyone was asleep.

He really didn't want to deal with questions and pitying remarks right then and there. He sighed as he stood, his legs shaking a bit from little to no use in the recent days, and he had to grip his bedpost. His eyes scanned the room, and he found Damien's cane. His friend must have accidentally left it when he'd come to visit the other day. Mark felt a twinge of guilt, knowing how worried Damien must be to have accidentally left it behind. Damien never went anywhere without his cane, ever since Mark gave it to him as a 'You're the Mayor now' gift.

Mark grabbed the cane and leaned heavily on it, groaning as he shuffled out of the room. He made a small noise of protest when he realized he'd have to go down the stairs, craving something more than bathroom water. He slowly made his way down the stairs, pausing a lot to both stay quiet and steady his feet.

When he finally made it down, he made his way to the kitchen slowly, something seeming to press in his mind that he needed to go to the kitchen for water. When he entered the kitchen, he did a quick glance around with drowsy eyes for the chef, but he wasn't in his kitchen. He smiled ruefully when he saw the little buddy and gave a little childish wave towards it. He then put his attention to his throat and the water he so badly needed.

_The sink... the cups are by the sink..._  he told himself, shuffling over, flinching a bit at each clack of the cane hitting the floor. His eyes trailed the cupboards for the one he remembered the cups to be in, before reaching up to pull one open. He cursed a bit when he realized he'd opened the plate cupboard instead. His eyes fell down on the counter as he absentmindedly thought about her laughing quietly behind him at his mistake.

He felt another pang of sorrow hit him, his eyes burning as they stopped moving, landing on the knife block. He swallowed, and stared, the pit in his stomach growing, consuming him. A shaky hand reached out to grasp the handle of a knife.

_This will all be over soon... Just take it, slice or stab... and it will all go away..._ his own thoughts sounded foreign in his head, but... they also made sense.  _She doesn't want you anyway. She left you for him, the traitor... she never wanted you_. His thoughts continued to whisper as he lifted the knife out of its block.

He held it with a shaking hand, his eyes hypnotized by the moonlight glinting off the blade. Images of slicing his arms open or stabbing his own beating heart filled his mind, and he nodded numbly, lifting the blade up.

_It will all go away..._

With all the momentum he could muster, he thrust the blade into himself, groaning as he fell to the floor. He groaned as he felt a numb sort of pain climbing from his stomach and up to his head. He numbly reached out to grab the cane and pull it close, as a sort of comfort. But he couldn't reach it.

He stopped his struggle quickly though, his own thoughts betraying him, whispering how everything would be okay, how it was all going to go away. He smiled a bit as the world started to fade out, an image coming to his eyes. She was standing there, smiling at him, laughing with him and nodding. He could hear her voice, though he ignored the strange deep echo he could hear, after the words she spoke.

_Well done, Mark... it's all going to start going away..._


	2. He Doesn't Deserve Her

_She doesn't deserve him... He doesn't deserve her... She's too good for him... He's too disgusting to deserve her..._

Mark's eyes blinked open before closing again, and he groaned, shifting about. There was something strange and sticky under his hands, and his head felt like he'd banged it on something, hard. He made a small noise of discomfort as he sat up, hand absentmindedly going to his stomach. He flinched as his hands brushed against something hard laying across himself, and his eyes cracked open.

He jolted up when he saw the handle of a knife, glad said knife didn't stab him as he sat up, and instead just fell to the floor. He frowned at feeling something sticky beneath his fingers, his eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness he was still in. He was glad the house was still dark, which meant it was still night. He didn't want to be bothered by questions or have Zadomin freak out over a knife being on the floor next to him.

He brought his sticky hand up to his face, eyes blinking more to try and see what was coating his fingers. His eyes stared at his hands for a while, confused as to why his fingers and part of his palm looked so much darker than the rest of his hand and arm. Then he jerked and nearly screamed.

_Blood_.

That's what covered his hands. Blood, red, sticky, and more horrifyingly, still warm. He swallowed and breathed in sharply as his hand immediately went towards the knife in front of him, his eyes adjusting quickly in his time of need. He nearly cried out when he saw the blade was also covered, and his eyes traveled across the floor.

In his panic of  _What the hell happened? What did I do? Why can't I remember?!_  he had a minor bout of confusion when he could find no dead body, just copious amounts of blood surrounding his own. He turned to see if perhaps the corpse was behind him, but there was none. This only served to make him more on edge though, because he couldn't  _find_  the source of all the  _blood_. His hand went to his stomach and he flinched at the sticky feeling, his head darting down to stare in horror.

His hand was covered with a fresh-ish layer of blood. It was only now he realized how uncomfortable his robe felt, sticking to his skin. He stood shakily, his hand pressed against his stomach, and he shuffled his way over to the bathroom, conveniently around the corner of the kitchen. He stepped in and turned the light on, before hesitating. He wanted to look in the mirror, he wanted to see but... he was scared about what he would find.

He swallowed and turned towards the mirror, nearly fainting at the sight. There was a surprisingly large hole in the fabric around his stomach. Blood was everywhere, and there was a thin scar about the size of the large knife he'd found at his feet. He whimpered quietly as he pressed a hand to his bloody robe, before practically throwing the garment off himself, leaving him standing in his bathroom with only his boxers.

He panted, grabbing his dirty robe and hopping in the shower, not caring how frigid the water was when he first entered. He began scrubbing his robe, trying to get the blood out of it. When that mostly failed, as most of the blood had dried and stained the cloth, leaving only a wet layer of blood on the top, he dropped it at the bottom of the shower. He then proceeded to scrub himself, using a small handheld scrubber to wipe away the blood and press into his body harshly. He relished the soft sting he received from the hard swipes of the rough material.

_It was worth it_... he shook his head, his arms shaking from the force he was using to scrub clean, tears welling in his eyes as he panted harshly. His arms dropped to his side as he leaned against the wall, letting the now scalding water wash over him. His shoulders shook and he closed his eyes, trying to banish the thoughts that felt  _wrong_.

When he opened his eyes again, his chest and shoulders were a bright red, slightly burnt by the water. He groaned as he pushed himself from the water, shuddering as he reached out to turn the water off. When he stepped out of the shower, he looked to the mirror, using his hand to wipe away the steam that had gathered on it. He took a good look at himself. His hair was freshly wet, though still obviously dirty as he hadn't washed it, and his normally healthy tan skin was pale and sickly looking. His eyes looked sunken and dead and his lips were pulled back into a thin, tight, fake smile. He dropped the smile, he may be an actor, but he didn't think he was up to acting at the moment.

He stared at his sopping robe that still sat on the floor of his shower. He reached out to grab it, wrapping it in the spare towel in the bathroom. He then peeked his head out the door, before scampering back to his room. Once he'd safely made it back, he leaned against the door with a huff, before pushing himself up and going to his closet to pull out another robe.

_I should go downstairs... clean up the... mess. I don't need Chef and Zadomin asking questions..._ Mark huffed and quietly made his way back to the kitchen, bringing a towel with him. When he arrived, though, the blood was already gone. He blinked in confusion, his hand absentmindedly rubbing over his new scar beneath his robe. He stared at the visible floating particles in the air, the world feeling stifling and cramped.

_I should... go back to my room... Everything will make sense sooner or later, won't it?_ he thought to himself slowly, his own thoughts foggy besides this one. He turned around slowly as if walking through molasses, before making his way back to his room as if in a trance. When he arrived, he stood in the doorway for a few moments, staring blankly at the room. The familiar empty feeling of missing  _her_  was returning.

_Sleep_... a voice whispered in his mind, and he nodded, stumbling tiredly over to his bed and collapsing onto it. He instinctively curled around her pillow, though her scent on it was long gone, and fell into a dreamless sleep. As he did so, he missed the shadows gathering at the end of his bed and the strange presence that seemed to fill the room with a morbid sort of glee.

...

_**Before :** _

_Mark's eyes fluttered open as he awoke in a strange place. The world was dark, a void of nothing. He felt a strange sensation as if he'd been flung upside down suddenly, though that didn't seem possible as he could feel something beneath his feet, and his floofy hair wasn't dangling in his face. He looked around with wide eyes, trying to seeing something, anything. But he found nothing._

_He froze at the sound of a chilling laugh that seemed to surround him. And then his hands rose to clutch at his ears as he fell down and curled up. He whimpered, though the sound was swallowed by the darkness, and he felt a chill run up his spine._

_He shakily lifted his hands from his ears when the sound of laughter left, and he lifted his head from the ground. He looked around, swinging his head in a slow circle. Mark blinked and turned, a bright light appearing behind him. There was... her... Celine. And she looked as beautiful as ever. Her black dress clinging to her curves perfectly, her shawl draped over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. Her hair was pulled back into a small bun and her hat sat upon her head like a delicate flower._

_He smiled, reaching out to her, but she scowled and turned away. It was then he saw someone else in the picture, someone in a Lieutenants outfit. The other man had always been so proud of his position in the army, though he strived for more, for a higher position. He pushed past his injuries, using Mark's money to rise in the ranks and heal at the same time. William Warf was standing behind Celine, a dark smile on his face and his arms open wide for her. Mark felt his heart shattered all over again before a scowl came over his face._

_Why does he get her? Why does he get to enjoy her company while I am left here? She deserves better than a filthy wife-stealer. She deserves someone who can provide for her, not some stuck up army Lieutenant!_

_He frowned at the thoughts, immediately sobering. William may have been horrible, using Mark's money, which he still owed back, to gain status and raise in the ranks of the army, and during all that he managed to take Mark's wife from him too... but... Mark wasn't good to Celine in recent years, more focused on his work, on his career. And William had been a wonderful friend of his for years..._

_He closed his eyes against the light of the scene playing before him in this void of darkness. When he opened them again, he could see a shape before him, a shadowy figure blocking the screen of memory behind him, facing away from him. He stared at the figures back, wondering who it was._

_**She doesn't deserve him. He doesn't deserve her. She's too good for him. He's too disgusting to deserve her.** _

_Mark frowned at the distorted voice that seemed to, once again, come from everywhere. He was frozen in place, though. Unable to move his gaze from the shadowy figure. A pain blossomed in his gut, and he wanted to curl in on himself. But he couldn't._

_Mark felt a scream rising in his chest, but he couldn't let it out. And then, the being began to turn toward him, slowly. Ever so slowly... He caught a glimpse of bright, glowing red orbs and a white shape that appeared to be a crescent moon smile, the world shaking and glitching, before he fell into complete darkness._

_He could feel something being pulled from his mind, the memory of the being and the upside down place vanished. It left only the imprint of his memory, and a curiosity to find out what happened... it left him confused and disoriented when he awoke in the world once more._

_It left him marked by chaos, and it's inevitable insanity._


	3. Be Accepted and Remember

Mark stood in the middle of his room, eyes staring down dully at the blade in his hand. He was so... confused. He didn't remember the last time he used it, whatever happened to stain it an ugly brown, to make it smell sickly sweet like death.

He took a shuddering breath, looking down at the weapon in his hands. He'd done this enough times (or at least, he was sure he had) that he'd lost count, though it would be easy enough to calculate it... The first scare in the kitchen, cuts in the bathroom... his bedroom with a 'borrowed' knife, twice... One accident with being drunk and said borrowed knife in Celine's old workroom... Once, the last time before now was a gardening tool to the gut because of another accident that he was still very confused about... more so than the others.

And after all this, he still could barely remember any of what happened during those times, having to piece the story together through evidence around him and his foggy memories. He could just barely remember going somewhere every time he was stabbed, in some way. Most of them being probably fatal wounds, so he decided to do it again. This time he was going with a purpose, his own purpose. Not some desperate, disgusting, distraught reason. Not an accident. His own volition. He'd taken his knife- his  _borrowed_  knife and prepared himself. He breathed in and out, slowly and carefully as he closed his eyes. His hand shook with an unknown fear. He wanted to do it, he wanted to find what that dark place was, but he couldn't do it.

He could remember the dark place, a void-like area, but not much else other than it's dark and strange. Every time he thought about it his head hurt and something felt like it was exploding in his mind if he pushed too hard. He was curious, deathly curious. But he had been unsure about how to get there, till now. He'd had the  _oh so brilliant_  idea of doing what he's sure he'd done, again.

Yet everything inside him was screaming both that he couldn't and that he had to. He curled in on himself some more, the blade pressing uncomfortably against his stomach, his arms and legs a shaking mess as his mind fought over the two possibilities.  _I want to do this! I want to know what that place is! Why it haunts me yet fascinates me!!_ _No,҉you͢ ͘don'҉t! Y_ _ou͏ don̛'t w̷an͞t to͠ go͜ ̛back,̨ it͏'̧s emp̕ty!͏ ҉Ther̷e҉'s noth͏i̸n̸g th̸ere f͡or ͘yo͝u! But I have to know!_

Mark let out a shuddering breath as determination filled him. He wanted to know more, and from previous experience, he was sure he would come back, so he didn't have to worry. Even though, in the back of his mind, he could hear the stray thought of  _What if your luck has run out?_ But he ignored it in favor of burying the butcher knife as deep as it would go into his stomach. He let out a soft whine as he fell to the ground, pain blossoming as he hit the floor.

Mark felt tears in his eyes as he collapsed, clutching at his stomach once more. He'd done it so many times, he was so sure of that... but he couldn't remember a single one while in the waking world. He could only vaguely remember the upside down, as he has started calling the strange void-like place he could just barely remember, knowing, somehow, that it possessed the uncanny ability to make him feel as if he were upside down when he was fairly certain he wasn't. And every time he came back from that place he was filled with a morbid curiosity over what happened and why he couldn't remember where the blood and his fresh scar had come from for at all.

He curled up against the wall, and if anyone were to walk in he would look like a cornered animal, pressed into a corner and curled around himself. He shuddered as his eyes started to close, blood loss making him woozy and glad he was on the floor. He felt tears trickling down his face, but he did nothing to stop them as his body tried to push out the blade anyway it could, spasming and causing more pain.

His vision darkened and he went limp against his wall, dead. For the moment.

...

26.

He'd woken up 26 times covered in blood, a fresh scar somewhere on his body that indicated a once fatal wound. All of them a mixture of suicide attempts-  _most of them being suicide attempts_ \- and curiosity to find what he knew was missing in his memories.

26 different scars hidden beneath his clothes and makeup.

And he could barely remember a single one. Quick fleeting memories would enter his mind only to moments later be taken away again. And during all this time, all he could do was get more confused, which led to him getting frustrated, which led to him getting angry. He knew the house had something to do with it, though he wasn't sure how. He wished  _she_ was here. She would know what to do, she would hold him and whisper how everything would be okay, that she was  _there_.

He scoffed. He didn't need her. She chose to run away. She chose to be with  _him_. That insufferable, inhuman, mustache wearing  _soldier._ She left Mark alone to deal with this...  _You could get revenge..._ His mind whispered to him, soothing him with its soft voice.

_You could take_ _revenge_ _on him. Leave him to the house._ _You_ _can bring her, Celine, back to you... He tricked her from you, so trick him back... He shouldn't deserve to be happy with your wife._

Mark smiled, he could do that. He would just have to look into it more... find a way to change Celine's thoughts... or maybe himself? He frowned and pulled a string next to his bed, knowing Zadomin Warf would come running. He smiled at the thought of his butler, the man had been a father to him when his own was... unavailable. He sat up with a smile when Zadomin entered. Right on time after rushing up from downstairs.

"Zad!"

"Mark..? You- you're up!" the old man said, his eyes crinkling into a smile. Mark nodded, standing and going to welcome his father figure. Zadomin clung to him, shaking a bit before pulling away with tears in his eyes, "I thought you would never recover..."

Mark smiled in return, patting Zadomin's shoulder, "Well, I'm back, and feeling very hungry," he said with a smile, "Walk with me to the chef?"

Zadomin nodded eagerly. It was quite obvious the older man had missed his adoptive son.

...

"...Do you think she left because I didn't have a bushy mustache?" Mark asked absently as he, Zadomin, and the chef stood in the kitchen, Chef busy cooking some food up for Mark very excitedly. They had yet to notice a shift in Mark, besides the obvious one from depressed too... normal. They had yet to notice the darker presence that had taken residence in the younger man's eyes. Zadomin blinked and chuckled sadly.

"I don't think it was the mustache, Mark..." he said softly, hesitantly. Mark nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. Now that he was feeling more like his old self, he couldn't help but start wondering, rationally, why she left him for the  _Colonel._ He pouted a bit.

_Maybe I could hire a detective to look into it for me._ He thought to himself as he stared hungrily at the food Chef was preparing. It wasn't a feast by any means, but Chef had explained that by the small amount Mark had been eating the past couple months, it would take a while for him to eat normally again, no matter how much he wanted to. The Chef had also professed his pleasant surprise at his eagerness to eat after so long of shoving food away.

"I was about ready to march on up to your room and start shoving my food down your unfed gullet!" the man had said with a good-natured chuckle. Mark had smiled, knowing his Chef would never do such a thing to him, but glad he'd had the thoughts to anyway.

Mark smiled at his Chef, greedily taking the food he handed him. He ate right there in the kitchen, not bothering to move to the dining room for food. It would take too long, he hadn't realized how hungry he was till now. He made a strangled noise when the Chef pulled his plate away with a worried, yet fond, smile.

"Sorry, bud, but you gotta slow down or you'll hurt yourself," he said. Mark pouted but nodded, before reaching out and making grabby hands at his plate. Chef and Zadomin chuckled and he felt a small smile resting on his face as he continued eating It was nice, he decided, being able to act normally, like he did so long ago. As if everything was still okay.

...

_When Mark woke up in the Upside Down once more, he barely remembered what happened. He could still vaguely feel the hilt of his knife clenched in his hands. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark hazy place and he frowned, seeing the dark figure he did not remember from other moments he was here. A flash of a crooked moon smile and glowing white eyes flickered across his memory and he shuddered in both fear and confusion._

_"Why am I here?" his voice floated around and echoed hauntingly, "Why did you bring me here? I just want to get my wife back!" he cried out, his own voice sounding dull to his ears. He pushes himself forward, the around or thick and heavy as he reaches for the figure. He knew the figure had something to do with it, something to do with the house. That it had something to do with his constant return here._

_He freezes when the shadow turns, it's smile nearly blinding him as he saw it full on for the first time. He heard a scream and it took him far too long to realize it was his own before a ringing began to build in his ears and drive out every other noise. Memories bubbled to the surface of each and every other time he killed himself, accidentally or purposefully. He could feel his throat vibrating with noise, even though he couldn't hear it as it felt as if he was tearing his own neck apart._

_And then everything stopped._

_There was no sound, no sight, no touch. Nothing. All his senses felt very dull as he stumbled forward as the air seemed to lighten. He moved as if he was released and allowed to move about freely, and when his knees hit the ground everything else came back. He heard his screams that were dying out, he saw small glowing particles in the air around him. He felt the pain in his chest from the knife and the pain crawling up his legs from the impact._

_It slowly faded out again, the pain in his chest disappearing and everything else evening out to more normal areas. He heard a soft ringing in his ears as some stray tears finished their trail down his cheeks. He looked around himself and blinked once. Twice. Three times before the gray hue and floating glowing specks started to fade away. He felt himself stirring and closed his eyes._

...

When he opened them again he sat up with a gasp. He could  _remember._  He remembered everything. Or, at least, he was sure it was everything. He could remember the emotions that stirred in his gut as he pierced his skin over and  _over and over and over again_. He could remember every single time he'd gone to the Upside Down place, every time being forced away by the strange smiling creature.

He let out a small laugh as his eyes were opened to the world around him, the floating particles he'd seen earlier just barely visible in the slightly gray room he was in. He stood from his spot on the floor and dusted off his robe, eyes searching the room. His eyes scanned the room, searching for something. He didn't know what, though, and after finding nothing of interest he picked up the knife and hide it away in his bedside drawer.

He turned and walked to his window, looking down at his manors grounds, seeing George working among the flower beds. He sighed and his eyes drifted to the small table covered in picture frames next to him. He growled at the sight of a picture of him and Celine, William, and Damien standing behind them. He nearly threw the picture next to it when his eyes landed on the smiling-  _backstabbing_ \- Private next to him in the picture.

He held himself back, though, because then his eyes saw Damien in the picture. He paused and felt the blood drain from his face.  _Oh gods, Damien. Celine was one of the only healthy constants in his life, and now- if she's- I have to find Damien._

He swiftly turned from the window and marched to the door. He needed to find his friend, his  _only remaining friend_. He needed to make sure Damien was okay, the other man has been doing so much better, but if he- this may have-. His mind cut him off.

_Why d̛o y͞ou͠ c̡a̸r͢e̸ if the̷ br̢o̴ther͢ of yo͡ur ͡t̕ra̴iţorou̕ş w̶if̡e ͝a҉n͡d be͘s̨t ̨fŗiend ̧to͜ yo͜ur̶ ͠oţher͏ ͟b͞a͠c̢k͏s͝ta̸bb͝in̸g ̵fr̴i͠e̢nd͘ is ͜doing͏ so͘mething̨ ҉s̛tupi̡d?͜ W͞h͏͏͘y ҉d͡o͞ ͘y͘͟o҉̛͝u̷͟ ̷̷c̕a҉r̷̛ę ̷͡i͢f͘ ͏͢h̨ę͢ ̡g̶̕o̵es̨ ̨t͜͡ǫ̕ ̢f͡i̢͟͡n͠d͝ ̢̕͡solac̸e̸͞ ̵̸̶a̛t̡ ̵t͡h̛e̕͝ ̢̕͢ȩn͞d̷ ͡҉o̧̡f ̢͏a ͘͟͟b̢͜͠o͏̴̧tt̸̷l̛e̡͜ ̡͘o͡r̛ a͜͝t͟͞ ̧̨t͞h͢e̸ ͟t̶͜i͘͜p ̸̕o͏̶f̸̧͜ ͡҉a̷̛ s͢͜y̕͜͠r̸̵i͞n͡gę̸͝?̢͢҉_

_H̴̶̵͟͡ę̵̸̨͡ ̧͝͞҉d̵̡͏i̷̢͟͠d͏ ̵͞n̢͢ǫ̸̶̧͝t̨̛̕͟ḩ͘͝i̵̡͘͝n̶̸̡͏g̷͏ ̶͘͝͞t͏̴o̵̶̧͝ ̧s̸̕t̵͢o̕͝p̵̵̡͟͡ ̷͘t̨̛h͟e҉̡͜͜m͘͢͢͠.̴̸̢̛͘_  
͡͏̴  
̶̵͝͏̕Y̨̢̕͡ǫ͏̴͠͡u̵͝ ̶̷̧̕s̛̛h̶͢͟͝o̧͜͢͞͡u̶͢͝͠l̵̴͜d̨͜͢n̨͞͞'̸̶̨͢t̨͢ ̡͘͘͝c͏͞a̧r̡̡̨̢e͝҉ ̸̧̧͠a̴̢͠͏t͞ ̴̕a͞l͏̵l̶.̵̸̢͡

Mark shook his head, and as if in a daze, turned back to his room. He did manage to stop Zadomin on his way back though, mumbling out something about calling Damien for him, before he continued on his way. As he slowly shuffled to his room he missed the worried look that passed over Zadomin's face, and then the flash of pain that overshadowed his worry as the old man rubbed his chest.


End file.
